


Unusual Alliance

by kriadydragon



Category: White Collar
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/pseuds/kriadydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is missing, and Peter's only help is a little man with a love for Russian surplus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unusual Alliance

Unusual Alliance

Peter clawed his way back to awareness and knew immediately that something was wrong. It didn't have to do with the dull, throbbing ache in his thigh. Not entirely. He remembered getting shot because it echoed in his head in the form of fractured dreams punctuated by the explosion of a gun and Neal's panicked shouts. What was wrong – and it took him a moment to figure it out – was what normally followed being shot, and that was either silence or the steady chirps and blips of noisy hospital equipment. 

What he heard instead was the irate babbling of a little bald guy spouting off one quote after another. This had to be another dream, likely drug induced. Having little patience to find out, Peter forced his gummy eyelids apart, blinking rapidly to clear them. 

The first thing he saw was Mozzie on a cell phone and a room that was very much not a hospital. Not another dream, then. Lovely. Peter closed his eyes and groaned inwardly, wondering if it was worth the headache to find out what was going on. But seeing as how it was inevitable, and the recollection of a gun going off and Neal's panic fresh in his head, Peter shifted with the intent of getting up and making demands.

The sharp, stabbing pain in his thigh and a wash of dizziness decided for him that it wasn't a good idea. Halfway to his elbows and he dropped back against whatever he was lying on, groaning and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Bad move, Suit.”

Peter forced his eyes back open to Mozzie, cell phone in hand and an unreadable expression on his face. 

“It took Javier two hours to put you back together. The man is an artist when it comes to making repairs to the human body. So I'd advise you not mess up his latest masterpiece.”

“Jav-ier?” Peter panted through the pain, in part to gather intel and it part to keep focused on the here and now.

“An acquaintance. That's all you need to know.” Mozzie sighed. “Guess it's time for your medication. Although it might help if you didn't squirm so much. You know, for a Fed who claims himself as being well educated you seem to lack a great deal of common sense when it comes to your own health.” 

“I just woke up!” Peter sputtered, refusing to admit that, yes, as long as he didn't move then the pain wasn't so bad, because that wasn't the point. “I wake up in a strange place with you hovering over me and you expect me not to react? Speaking of which...” He rolled his head on what he hoped was a pillow and not some strange spongy _thing_ Mozzie would claim was ten times better because it wasn't made by a greedy pillow corporation. Peter took in his surroundings as much as he could, what looked like a rather large room with black and white checkered linoleum floors and plaster-covered pillars. 

“Where the hell am I?” Peter demanded. “What the hell happened and where the _hell_ is Neal?” Because he remembered with painful clarity he and Neal checking out what was supposed to be an allegedly unused storage facility, big black cars squealing toward them, gun fire and him getting hit in the leg while diving for cover and Neal...

Neal crying out his name, and that was it. 

“All your hell bent questions will be answered in due time, Suit,” Mozzie said, approaching the area where Peter's leg rested with blatant trepidation. “First, I need to make sure you're going to continue to live. Javier's a perfectionist like that. He doesn't take kindly to patients dying on him.” He peeled back the plain gray blanket covering Peter's legs.

It was to Peter's own trepidation to discover that he was sans pants, only a pair of poke-a-dot boxers between him and his virtue. That Mozzie was equally bothered didn't help. 

Mozzie peeled off the bandage covering the wound – lower thigh on the left leg – craned his neck checking it without getting too close, then nodded in satisfaction before moving to the round dining room table in the middle of the room.

Peter eyed the wound with a grimace. The skin was bruised black, blue and a little green, the wound itself stitched closed but no less disturbing, yet thankfully nothing looked inflamed. Peter touched his hand lightly to the skin anyway, just in case, but felt no worrying amount of heat. He then took in his surroundings in earnest, including his current bed.

It was a safe house, had to be, probably the one Mozzie used when of a mind to pretend he was finally living it up. The bed was plush, the wooden frame ornate, and the scarce pieces of furniture the kind only affordable with a year's pay. Besides the polished dining room table there were fancy chairs to go with it, a gold-guilded and red padded love seat with matching setee and coffee table, and a chandelier – an honest to goodness gold chandelier hanging from the ceiling. 

Peter's look must have been openly suspicious (Neal did like to call it Peter's facial default setting); Mozzie returned with medical supplies only to pause, narrow his eyes, glance around then raise both eyebrows in understanding. 

“Ah. A little damage makes for excellent discounts. Speaking of which, try not to move too much. The right corner leg of the bed is a little lose and I haven't gotten around to fixing it, yet.” He then set about rubbing some kind of liquid on the wound using a Q-tip, his face contorted by mild disgust. When done, he covered the wound as quickly as possible. 

“There, done. You'll live. Now on to business.”

“Thank you,” Peter gasped. Only to scowl when Mozzie was suddenly holding out two pills and a glass of water.

“What?” Mozzie said. “Antibiotics and pain medicine.”

Peter continued to scowl.

Mozzie sighed. “It's legal, I promise.”

“I need to be clear-headed,” Peter growled.

“You will be... for a while. Long enough for me to get you caught up. Look, I'd be happy enough to oblige your need to be heroic and stupid and stoic and everything but Javier can be mean if he thinks his patients aren't getting the care they need and time is of the essence.”

It was more the latter part than the former that forced Peter to take the damn pills. The water he happily consumed to the last drop. 

“Okay,” he gasped, handing the glass off. “Get me up to speed, _now_.”

“What do you remember?” Mozzie said, setting the glass on the very ornate (but chipped in two corners) night stand. 

“What do _you_ know?”

“That you and Neal were investigating John Malonie – smuggler, racketeer, enjoys the occasional underground poker game and, oh, yeah, _cutting people's fingers off_. I swear, suit, the things you get Neal involved in... _you're lucky to be alive_! Actually, you're three times lucky I decided to follow you around after Neal told me who you were after. And now Malonie has Neal.”

Peter flinched internally. “Yeah. Word had it Malonie was shipping out some stolen artwork. We found out he was making payments on some storage place, we went to check it out, and were ambushed. Last I remember was being shot and...” Neal crying out. “And Neal being taken. What I don't know is how I ended up here rather than, oh, say a _hospital_?” He gave Mozzie “the look,” the one that normally, eight times out of ten, managed to keep Neal honest.

Mozzie completely ignored it in favor of pulling one of the fancy chairs to the bed. 

“Hospital wouldn't have been safe.”

“That's what security details are for. And FBI teams, like _my_ team.”

“Then you are sadly underestimating Malonie. Believe me, when that guy wants something, he gets it, be it a million dollar sculpture or someone's head on a plate. I'm doing you a favor, Suit. A big favor. Keeping you off the radar has ensured that you, your team and Mrs. Suit are safe. Malonie doesn't like to make any moves until he's certain as to the location of his opponents.”

“And Neal?”

Mozzie let out a breath too heavy to be a sigh. It was then that Peter noticed the little guy's tension, the stiff back, fingers digging into his knees, his gaze fixed on a point past Peter, all adding up to a story Peter wasn't sure he wanted to hear.

“Knowing Neal, he'll have convinced Malonie that he's useful. But not before...” Mozzie swallowed. 

“Before?” Peter hedged.

“Let's just say Malonie likes to soften people up, remind them of who's in charge, and leave it at that.”

Peter felt the blood drain from his face. “Not--”

“No, no finger cutting.” Mozzie's eyes darted all over the place like a hyper hummingbird. “Yet.”

Peter groaned, covering his eyes with his hand. Thoughts of the kid having the crap beat out of him was bad enough. Neal losing his fingers... it was too much to even begin to imagine, and Peter didn't want to. 

“How do you know all this?” he asked, not for the sake of information, but to distract himself from further morbid meditations. 

“Detroit mob. Malonie used to be a thorn in their side before he fled to New York. Malonie's smart but he has an ego the size of Texas.”

“You did business with him, once, didn't you?”

“I neither confirm nor deny,” Mozzie said airily. Which, in Mozzie speak, was as good as a blatant yes, just not the kind of yes that held up in court. 

Peter groaned. “And Neal---”

“Down, Suit. Malonie was before his time. But Malonie is a man who likes to keep up and keep ahead. He'll know about Neal, not in face but definitely in name and that's going to intrigue him. Which means that though time is of the essence, we still have it on our side. It's only been two days--”

“Two days!”

“Okay, a day and a half, in which time Malonie will have been doing his homework, getting to know Neal, listening to whatever deals Neal is making and thinking things over. Malonie's a patient man, not one to rush into anything.”

“Great. Then hand me that phone so I can call in my team and--”

“Not possible,” Mozzie said coolly, almost irritably. “We call in your team, they take you to the hospital and Malonie has you in his sights. He'll want to get rid of you as a distraction so that he can finish what he started.”

“Smuggling the art.”

“Exactly. And by 'time is still on our side' I meant we may have another day, two days tops, before Malonie makes a decision that I can guarantee will make Neal's life miserable. Who Malonie doesn't kill, he usually frames.”

“Lovely,” Peter groused, hand back to his face, this time his forehead as he rubbed at the throbbing ache growing the more he talked with Moz. “So, what, I lie here while we wait for Malonie to make the first move?”

“Au contraire,” Mozzie said, and checked the phone. “I have a plan. Well, most of a plan. I'm still waiting on a few minor details, then we'll be in action.”

“Mozzie,” Peter moaned, though it skirted dangerously close to being a whine. “Phone, now. My team has to be worried sick and Elizabeth frantic. We don't have time for games--”

“You think I think this is a game!” Mozzie bellowed, bursting out of the chair and nearly knocking it over. “Do you honestly believe I would have so little regard for Neal's life? Neal's life and your life, by the way, _Suit_ , is exactly why I'm not caving to your little demands. Because there's only two reasons they would take Neal – for information or for leverage. As information with the bonus of skills, he's safe. As leverage, Malonie goes into hiding taking Neal with him and the only way you know Neal is alive is photos of him beaten to a bloody pulp. Believe me, I've... I've seen it before. With you in the shadows, Malonie has no idea whether or not the Feds are on to him and Neal is safe. As safe as he can be.”

“Okay, okay,” Peter said, making the mistake of shifting. The pain was starting to dull but not enough to make motion less of an ordeal. “I'm sorry. It's just...”

“Just that you don't trust me,” Mozzie said.

“Actually, I was going to say you don't trust me.”

That made Mozzie shift uncomfortably, much to Peter's surprise.

“True,” Mozzie said, retaking his seat. “But I'm making an exception. Though you are still very much a Fed, our acquaintanceship has lasted long enough to let me know that you are just as much serious about saving Neal as I am.”

And if Peter hadn't known any better, he could have sworn that had been Mozzie speech for “I trust you... a little.” Which Peter would take, because he'd gotten to know Mozzie, too. Not all that much – a scratch on what was a large and deep surface – but enough to know, to understand, that for Mozzie to admit to trusting Neal's life to Peter's hands meant that this, all of this – hiding Peter, keeping off him the radar, not letting Peter call his team – wasn't about government conspiracies and paranoia. 

Yes, Peter didn't trust Mozzie, not where priceless art, banks, top secret government files and Neal's sense of right and wrong were concerned. But where Neal's life was concerned – yeah, _that_ Peter could trust. 

And that also meant trusting that Mozzie knew what he was doing. 

Peter sighed and scraped a hand over his face. “Okay, so what's the plan thus far?”

The phone chirped. Mozzie held up a finger as he answered. After a few yes, yes and uh-huhs later, Mozzie hung up and smiled. “The plan thus far is complete. I know where Malonie is.” Then he frowned, shoulders bowing as though in grudging defeat. “But I need your help.” And he handed Peter the phone. 

\----------------------------

It didn't take long for Peter to rethink his stance on trusting Mozzie, even for the duration of the mission. A part of it, he knew, was because he was outside his comfort zone - _way_ out. Without a team, without a gun, without more intel there could be no sense of security. To use a hackneyed metaphor, Peter felt naked without Diana, Jones and a host of agents at his beck and call. 

The other part was Mozzie and his love for all things Russian surplus. Night vision goggles, a pair of glasses with a camera in the frame, a banana with a knife in it (“Seriously, Mozzie?” “We all have our method of self-defense. You have your projectile weapons, I have my fruit.”) and gadgets Peter couldn't even begin to comprehend. The brown suit Mozzie wore was... odd, well fitted but a little bulky in the shoulders and the shoes looked a little long in the toes, but when Peter asked about it the only answer he got was a secret smile. It was hard, so very, very hard, not to accuse Mozzie of going through with his hair-brained plan simply to play James Bond with all his toys. 

But he had to admit, the camera glasses were a good idea. Peter was immobile, had to stay put, but with the camera, an ear bud and live feed broadcasting to three small televisions set up next to the bed, Peter now had what every agent only dreamed about – eyes _and_ ears into the suspect's domain. 

Peter watched, with sweat soaking his hairline that had nothing to do with the growing ache in his leg, Mozzie exit the taxi. It was night, but the camera so high tech it switched to night vision automatically. The location – and it couldn't be any more of a cliché – was a warehouse at the docks. Mozzie approached the side door being guarded by a heavy in a leather jacket, but because Peter couldn't actually see Mozzie he had no idea if the approach was with confidence or rigid trepidation.

“You lost, pal?” the heavy asked.

“On the contrary. I'm right where I need to be.” Peter saw Mozzie's hand lift into view for a shake. “Name's Leroy.” When the shake wasn't returned, the hand was dropped. “I'm here to see John.”

“No one here by that name,” the heavy said easily with a casual shrug.

“I'll be the judge of that. Just tell whoever's inside that Leroy's back. Shouldn't take you more than a second. Go on, shoo.” 

Peter grinned at Mozzie's hands flapping at the thug.

It was with a sour expression and a quiet exhale that the heavy unclasped his hands and beat a coded rhythm on the door. The door opened a crack, long enough for words to be exchanged. When the door closed, they waited. 

“Nice night,” Mozzie said chipperly.

“Whatever,” the heavy grunted. 

Sweat tickled down Peter's temple, tension escalating the throb in his thigh. 

The door squealed open. A voice on the other side said, “Let him in.”

It was with another, this time slightly exasperated exhale that the heavy stepped aside, only for another blond heavy to take his place and lead the way inside. The camera's night-vision switched to normal. Peter briefly contemplated getting the name of that surplus store. 

The inside had been renovated on a poor man's budgeted, so to speak. Large crates both wood and metal had been stacked forming walls and creating a maze that would have been hell to navigate without an escort. Left, right, right again, three more lefts, two rights and for a moment Peter thought for sure they were heading back to the entrance when they took another left. They finally reached the stairs leading to the offices, also renovated but on a rich man's budget – the red carpet plush, the desk dark polished oak, and the room enlarged for a bed, a kitchenette and a small living room area where more heavies sat riveted to a football game on the large flatscreen. Malonie was apparently both high maintenance and practical. 

The man in question was nowhere to be seen, and Mozzie was forced to wait standing in front of the desk. It was a short wait, a second door at the other end of the room opening and Malonie walking through. He was a medium height guy, with a medium build and sandy hair slicked back nearly flat against his skull. He was dressed business casual in khaki slacks and a blue button shirt – like a frat boy playing at being a gangster, and doing a pretty damn good job of it. He was also pushing mid-forties, was rat-faced and the moment he stepped in, every thug stood up like the president had just walked into the room. 

Peter was more interested in the way Malonie was wiping his hands clean with a rag, a rag looking a little on the red side. The rag was lost to sight when Malonie tossed it aside in order to spread his arms, a smile stretching his pointy face and his eyes lighting up.

“Leroy, buddy! Long time no see! How are things.” The two embraced, Malonie's pat to Mozzie's back loud in the comm. Malonie then moved to his desk while Mozzie turned to face him. 

“Man, Leroy, seriously, how long as it been?”

“I've lost count myself,” Mozzie said neutrally.

Malonie looked Mozzie up and down, almost affectionately, it seemed. “Man, I've missed you. Boys, meet Leroy. Best bastard I'd ever worked with 'til he had to split town. Why was that, again?”

“Upset a lot of the wrong people,” Mozzie said, still neutral.

Leroy chuckled. “Yeah, haven't we all. How'd you find me? No, wait.” He held up his hand. “I know, I know. You have your ways. And those are scary, scary ways bud. I wish our partnership had lasted longer so you could teach me. So what do you need?”

“Sources tell me there was a little incident down by some storage place? Details are sketchy but what I was able to gather was that one man was wounded and another taken. Now, far be it from me to jump to conclusions but those sources also tell me it may or may not have something to do with one of your operations.”

“Yeah?” Malonie said, looking a little on the suspicious side to Peter.

“Relax, I don't want a cut of whatever you have planned. I'm more interested in the people involved. See, I've been trying to get to this guy, goes by the name Neal Caffrey. Young guy, cocky, but a great forger. I've been wanting to approach him for some time, make use of his skills for something I've been working on. Problem is, the kid's been under the thumb of the feds and that's made him impossible to get anywhere near. I know this is probably a long shot but I was hoping the guy you grabbed was him?”

John sat back, one hand raised and flipping a pen between his fingers. “You've got some pretty nosy sources, Leroy.”

Cloth rustled, the camera jostling, most likely from a shrug. “It's more a simple deduction. I know it's the White Collar division Neal's been working for, know the Feds were looking into the rumors about some art being shipped, and I put two and two together. Believe me, I've done this before. In fact this would make it the third... no... fourth time I had reason to believe someone had nabbed Neal. Please tell me you have him.”

“Well,” Malonie said with a mild wince, “If you know what the kid looks like you could see for yourself. this way.” He led the way back to the door and through it into a cramped little room, it's windows covered by black cloth and a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. On each side of the room were racks of clothes – suits, casual wear and shoes. In the middle of the room was a chair, and tied to the chair, slumped and barely conscious, was Neal.

Malonie grabbed Neal's hair and lifted his head. Peter's stomach clenched. The kid's face was a map of puffy bruises and blood, one eye swollen shut, lip split and a cut on his cheek still dribbling sluggishly. Peter thought he was going to be sick. 

“This him?” Malonie asked.

“Hard to say with all the bruising. I need a closer look,” Mozzie said with that same maddening neutrality. He moved in close, studying Neal's face, the camera tracking from head to body. Peter saw, just within the corner of the camera, Mozzie's hand on Neal's arm, his index finger tapping away. 

_FBI_. 

And it was now, finally, that Peter could make the call. He dialed Diana's number, half his attention still on the screen. 

“Yep,” Mozzie said. “That's him all right. So can I take him?”

Malonie sucked air through his teeth. “Sorry, old buddy, but no can do just yet. I need him. He said he'd help me out if I let him live. But once I'm done then he's all yours, promise.”

Diana picked up, pulling Peter's attention away. “Diana, it's me, Peter. Listen, I don't have time to explain but I need an assault team at the following address...”

On the screens, Malonie had lowered Neal's head back to his chest, causing Neal to moan piteously. 

“So,” Malonie said. “Wine? I got this great vintage you're going to love.”

Mozzie checked his watch. “I suppose I've got some time. Mind if I hang up my jacket, here? It's a bit warm.” Malonie gave his permission with a sweep of his hand and Mozzie hung his jacket on the nearest available hanger. He kept adjusting it, a man intent on keeping it neat and wrinkle free, but Peter didn't miss the way he pressed various sections of it. The two men left the room, turning off the light, leaving Neal in the dark. 

It was almost nauseating the way Malonie sat there, sipping wine, regaling Mozzie with tales of current exploits and laughing while a man beaten and injured sat in the next room. He didn't envy Mozzie's position of having to play the part while his friend suffered. For Peter, just sitting there, the pain in his leg on the verge of screaming at him, unable to move and unable to help, was torture by itself. Normally he would jiggle his leg, bleed off some of the agitation, and he couldn't even do that much. Seconds ticked by stretching into forever, and Peter thought he would go insane before this was all finally over. 

Mozzie checked his watch. “Listen, I need to go. Places to go, people to meet, all that.”

“Of course. Ed, get Leroy's jacket, would you? The brown one.”

Mozzie turned, watching as Ed headed to the door. Ed opened it and jumped back away from a wave of smoke spilling from the room. 

“Fire! I think there's a fire!” he bellowed. The smoke poured out, filling the room fast. 

“We need to get out of here!” Mozzie called as he jumped from his seat, heading who knew where, the smoke having already diminished visibility to almost zero. But Peter knew exactly where Mozzie was going, shoving heavies aside as they scrambled trying to find the way out of the room. Then Mozzie was in the closet, normal switching to night vision on the camera. He pulled out the banana knife and sliced easily through the zip ties securing Neal's wrists. He then pulled a groggy but alert enough Neal onto his feet, his arm over his shoulder. While heading out of the room, Mozzie grabbed his “smoking jacket” still oozing white fumes, giving them extra cover. 

Peter watched, his heart in his throat, as Mozzie fumbled toward the entrance to the room. The door was already open, everyone stumbling out but the smoke still following them, hiding Mozzie and Neal from view. 

But the jacket was running out of smoke, the screen already starting to thin and Peter able to see the maze of crates. 

“Leroy what the hell do you think you're doing! Frank! Frank stop them!”

Peter's breath caught. A heavy loomed up in front of Mozzie. There was a click and suddenly the big man yelped and started hopping on one foot, his shin in his hands and blood oozing between his fingers. Mozzie shoved past him, a brief glance down showing Peter the small blade sticking out of the toe of Mozzie's shoe. Another click and Mozzie glanced back for Peter to see more smoke billowing out from behind, this time from the heel of the second shoe. 

Peter was definitely going to have to get the name of that Russian surplus place. 

Mozzie navigated the maze easily. He had to be only half way to the door when he was met by Diana, Jones and a team of agents coming from the other way. Peter smiled. Mozzie wasn't the only one who knew how to memorize. 

“I believe you know the way,” Mozzie said, cordial.

Smiling, Diana held up a piece of paper covered in directions. “Got it.” She said, speaking at Mozzi'es glasses, “Hey, boss.” Then she, Jones and the agents were off, another agent staying behind to help Mozzie with Neal.

Peter chuffed, shaking his head. He didn't cave to taking any more pain pills until he saw Neal loaded onto a bus and Diana and Jones coming out with Malonie and his gang. 

Mozzie removed his glasses and faced the camera. 

“I was never here,” he said, and the camera winked off.

\--------------------

The knock on the door had a rhythm to it, most likely out of habit since Peter didn't see the point – it was his door being knocked on. Habits of his own nearly had him getting up to answer it when El beat him to it.

“Stay,” she said, pointing a stern finger at him. “I told you, no moving. I've got this.” But smiling while she said it. She was in a chipper mood, a far cry from the tears of worry, anger, joy and exhaustion of the other day. Peter had hated seeing it; the stress, the shadows under her eyes and how aged she had seemed. What should have been relief had felt like a kick in the chest over the agony his disappearance had caused, making him vow that it would never happen again. Which, of course, he couldn't ensure, but he would damn well try. 

“Mozzie!” El exclaimed, pulling the little man into a tight embrace. “Oh, Mozzie, I was so hoping you would visit. I never got a chance to thank you. In fact, I have something for you, come with me.” She started pulling him along by the hand, only to stop with a look of realization. “Oh, I'm so sorry, you're probably here to check on Neal. Okay, wait right there, I'll bring it to you.” She hurried off, glowing with excitement and more happiness. It loosened the ache in Peter's chest. 

“Well,” Mozzie said, a little dazed. “That was exciting.”

“Saving Neal or my wife practically kidnapping you so she could give you a gift?”

“A little of both.” Mozzie turned to the couch where Neal lay curled on his good side buried under blankets. 

“How is he?” Mozzie asked softly.

Peter joined Mozzie in watching Neal sleep. 

_You're okay_ , Neal had said from his hospital bed, half out of it on medication but smiling and looking so damn relieved, then looking on the verge of tears. _You found me_.

Not that Peter could blame him, medication or not. Malonie had roughed him up without mercy, not just the face but the body, cracking a rib and bruising him so bad that eating and breathing had become an ordeal. El hadn't wanted him out of her sights, either. 

“He's doing better,” Peter said. “He should be waking up, soon. It's almost dinner time. You're invited to stay if you want, let Neal can lay on the gratitude.”

“He already did over the phone,” Mozzie said.

“You know that won't be enough.”

Mozzie nodded sagely. “True. What are you having?”

“Portabello stuffed ravioli in cream sauce, French bread and salad.” 

Mozzie sniffed. “I suppose I could stay for a little while.” He then turned to Peter. “And you?”

“Still going to live. The bullet hadn't hit the bone and since the wound was clean it should heal pretty quick. Tell Javier thanks.”

Mozzie nodded once, “I'll relay that to him. He likes kudos.” He then turned back to Neal. Peter turned back to his crossword puzzle. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Mozzie seat himself on the arm of the chair at Neal's head, reaching out to give Neal's shoulder a squeeze. The younger man stirred with a contented sigh. 

El returned with Mozzie's prize; a small gift basket with a bottle of red wine, a mini-Parcheesi game, a book by some author Mozzie supposedly liked, and a fake apple. Mozzie went straight for the apple, studying it with mild suspicion. 

“Press the stem,” Peter said.

Mozzie did. “Okay. Now what?”

“Press it again.”

When Mozzie did, the apple echoed his previous words.

“Ooohhh,” Mozzie said. “Nice one. Russian surplus?”

“Took me long enough to find the damn website.”

“Excellent,” Mozzie said, smiling wide, returning the apple to the basket. “Though you do know I will be checking it for bugs.”

Peter chuckled. “I'd be shocked if you didn't.”

the End


End file.
